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Anticipating the birth of our granddaughter any day now, I’ve begun sorting through shelves and closets to locate storybooks, art supplies and games that have been tucked away for some time.

Today, I found a little treasure: a story that I wrote and my daughter, Moira, illustrated back in 1996. She was 10 years old. I was doing a fair amount of live storytelling at the time, and she and I used to do all kinds of projects together. This is a story I used to tell, and one day we decided to make it into a book.

I took pictures of the book’s pages just now with my iPhone and posted them below, with text to the right.

The Doonlobber Pesterfill

Written by Laura McHale Holland

Illustrated by Moira Kathleen Holland

If and then, in a time of tuggle doodles and whatever wherefore to now considered, there lived a graphnel swapfnicker sort of thing.

Of course, that was long ago now, for I was almost six years old when I saw the thing slithering beneath the leaves — brown, red and gold — that had already fallen to the ground, though it was mid-July, and the grass was high, and the baby frogs were not yet jumping across the meadow, Uncle Bill’s meadow, that is.

The grapnel swapfnicker sort of thing appeared while I was avoiding as long as possible a trip to the outhouse with its daddy long legs crawling, hungry horse flies buzzing, lizards lurking, and other creepy things mucking about.

All morning I was a knight in shining armor ordering rows of pansies to their doom at the hands of my sister, Ruthy-Bea, who was a sorceress, only until noon though, when she became Elvis Presley, and I had to be Marilyn Monroe swooning on the nearby maple stump

unless we found an arrowhead along the way, which would change everything, you see. Then I would be Elvis, and she would be Marilyn, and we would argue down by the tool shed.

But instead of an arrowhead, I found a rusty dagger, which must have fallen from a lost pirate ship, and I swaggered off with my treasure down the hill to the dry creek bed, for Ruthy-Bea and I had no rules about daggers.

While I played suave swashbuckler dueling a crew of mutinous grasshoppers, Ruthy-Bea cornered a baby rabbit up in the peach orchard, put it in a cardboard box, and began instructing it in the esoteric beauty of the times tables. The graphnel swapfnicker sort of thing snorted at my feet, cleared its throat with a great rickety-rumble-dumble and said, “She’s got the wrong idea there with the times tables. Rabbits like the ABC’s, nothing more, nothing less.”

I looked down at its nail-file sharp claws emerging from the leaves, and I said, “How would you know? You’re just one of those graphnel swapfnicker sort of things sticking your snout out for some air.”
“How do you know I’m not a doonlobber pesterfill?” it sneered.
“Uh, I studied them last summer, and everybody knows doonlobber pesterfills live in the dirt mounds in the dense woods over there. They never come out.”
“Oh, yes they do, every year in mid-July, and they eat sweet little girls like you.”
“Like me?” I was suddenly shrunken in spirit, for I had not really studied about doonlobber pester fills, and I suspected this graphnel swapfnicker sort of thing knew that. “Oh, no, they don’t like girls like me,” I said. “I’m sneaky and sly and not at all good tasting.”
“Who, then, would be good tasting?” the thing queried.
“I’m sure Ruthy-Bea up in the peach grove would be, for she is good, sweet and kind. She tastes better even than chocolate ice cream, if you like to eat people, of course.”

And then with a bam-boom-schram-a-flam, the grapnel swapfnicker sort of thing rose up from the leaves in the creek bed, and he tore off his head, which wasn’t his head at all, but a mask, and beneath was a foul smelling critter with slimy scales on his lumpy skull and sunken eyes oozing what looked suspiciously like cherry jello.

It grabbed me with its steely claws, threw me into the creek bed. I landed in a cloud of dust, and the thing zip-zipped and bip-bipped like the wild mouse carnival ride up to the peach orchard. “Ruthy-Bea, watch out!” I screamed. “It’s a bona fide doonloabber pesterfill heading right toward you.”

Ruthy-Bea picked up the box with the bunny inside and she ran, but she didn’t watch where she was going, and she ran smack into a peach tree.

The box flew into the air, across the meadow, and through the open rear window of my father’s Ford Galaxy, as he drove up Uncle Bill’s driveway on his way back from a run to the Foster Freeze.

The doonlobber pesterfill grabbed Ruthy-Bea; its slimy fingers closed in around her neck. I ran as fast as I could. I had to save her. She wasn’t really good, sweet and kind. She was sneaky and sly just like me.

I touched the rusty, trusty dagger to my leg — I hoped it would magically speed me up the hill — and cazoom-varoom-daploomb, there I was right at the pesterfill’s big, stinky feet.

I bit his bristly legs, pulled scales off his back, pried his fingers loose from Ruthy-Bea’s neck. But then he whop-glopped me with his triple-jointed, rubber-tire tail.

The tail stretched and wrapped around Ruthy-Bea and me. Ruthy-Bea bit down hard on the creature’s wheezing nose.

He lost his balance, and the three of us rolled down the hill into the dry creek bed — fists, scales, twigs, and hair flying everywhere.

The doonlobber pesterfill landed on top of me, he wrenched the rusty dagger from my fist, and he held it right above my heart.

Then water, sweet cool water, rained down upon us. The doonlobber pesterfill moaned and groaned and melted right into the leaves, winking one of his turquoise eyes at me before he disappeared.

I looked up, and there was my father spraying us from above with Uncle Bill’s garden hose. “How did he know it would melt the doonlobber pesterfill,” I wondered.

Ruthy-Bea and I jumped to our feet and raced up to hail him, our hero, who had just saved us from yet another near-death experience. We each grabbed one of his legs and kissed his trousers right at the knees.

“Look at the two of you,” he growled, “a couple of hooligans. Why, I can’t take you anywhere before you start fighting and making a mess.”
“But there was …” Ruthy-Bea began.
“Please, no excuses,” he said. “And what about this thing?” He brought a hand from behind his back. By the ears he held the baby rabbit dressed in melted butter-pecan ice cream, chocolate fudge, and whipped cream.

“You know when you come to Uncle Bill’s you’re not supposed to catch the animals. They’re wild, and they don’t like it. Why don’t you ever just play with dolls?”
“We can explain,” I tried to say.
“I don’t want any of your far-fetched explanations; we’re going home right now.”
“Aw, Daddy,” Ruthy-Bea and I lamented.
“Oh, and Shrimp,” he said, pointing a finger at me, “Go to the outhouse before we leave. It’s a long ride back to the city.”

So I went to the rickety-wooden shack of foul smells, opened the door,

and to my surprise, there were no daddy long legs crawling, no hungry horse flies buzzing, no lizards lurking, and no other creepy things mucking about.

And I knew it was the doonlobber pesterfill who had gotten ’em all, for it was mid-July, the grass was high, and there were no sweet, little girls to eat,

Here’s a mini memoir I contributed to The Sitting Room‘s 2014 publication, This Is What a Feminist Looks Like. The question writers were asked to address was, When did you first realize you were a feminist?

Vying for Space
by Laura McHale Holland

Kathy, Mary Ruth and I unwrap Bazooka in the back seat while our father starts up the Ford Galaxy. Feeling lucky that I, the youngest in the family, landed the coveted window spot on the driver’s side, I pop an entire rectangle of gum in my mouth, chomp down, and relish a burst of flavor.

We crumple the wax papers and drop them one, two, three into her hand. She faces for-ward again. Our father backs down the drive. Excited at the prospect of seeing our grandmother soon, my sisters and I fidget, elbow each other and kick the back of the front seat.

“Stop that!” our father roars. He brakes; we all lurch forward. “Sit still, or you’re going right back in the house. No visiting Gramma today. I’ll count to three: one, two … three.”

We do our best to settle down, careful not to bump each other and set off a fight.
Our father resumes backing out just as our neighbors pull into their driveway. All four family members sit like mannequins in their respective places: father driving, son in front passenger seat, mother and daughter in back.

“That’s creepy—males in front, females in back,” Kathy says.

“They’re so weird,” Mary Ruth says. I bounce up and down in agreement.

“He’s got the right idea, girls,” my father says, catching my eye in the rearview mirror. “You’d just better hope my lovely wife doesn’t have a son someday. She might have to ride in back with you.” He pulls into the street, changes gears and accelerates.

I wince at the thought of a wiggling, squalling male heir in the front next to my father, and a full-grown woman vying for space in back with my sisters and me.

“That’s not funny, Daddy,” Mary Ruth says.

“It wasn’t meant to be.” He chortles, head thrown back.

We three sisters chew our gum in silence. The car crunches over gravel and hits a pot-hole. I kick the front seat right at the small of my father’s back. I kick hard enough to disturb him, but not so hard he won’t conclude the seat was just jostled by the bumpy road.

###

Are you a feminist?

(Photo is by Christopher Sessums and used under Creative Commons attribution license. My father’s Galaxy was white and a couple years older than the one pictured.)

Sometimes
A reflection by Laura with a way cool poem by Moira Kathleen

Sometimes I feel like a bloated computer file stuffed with too many variations of the same old story. Other times I’m like a youngster again watching Jiminy Cricket sing When You Wish Upon a Star on the Walt Disney Show. But I wonder whether I’ve been wishing upon the wrong star, chasing something illusive, unattainable.

Typhoons and tornadoes rip across the landscape in far off lands and closer to home. Cars crash. Fires break out, consuming homes in a flash. Any of us could lose everything in an instant, or our lives could dribble away slowly.

I worry about all of this way too much, I know.

But occasionally I’ll do something routine that shifts my perspective—like yesterday, I took a shower, toweled off and rubbed a new brand of vanilla lotion all over my skin. The scent reminded me of a poem my daughter wrote when she was 10 years old.

It was selected for the Anthology of Poetry by Young Americans, 1997 edition.

I looked through a book shelf near my bed and found the slender volume. I’d forgotten how wonderful the poem is. I hope I never forget again. It reminds me of the power of giving and receiving everyday, constant love—and what an honor it is to be my daughter’s mom:

My Mom
By Moira Kathleen Holland

My mom is as beautiful as the sunset
She smells like a bundle of new roses
She loves to garden and write
When I wake up in the morning
she smells like vanilla
My mom has a dancing heart
I love her very much
I think she is a child wrapped
in a grown-up’s body

I’ve been working on a sequel to my childhood memoir, Reversible Skirt; I’ve also started to collect short works for Sisters Born, Sisters Found, an anthology of writings on sisterhood that I’ll be editing and publishing in 2014.

When thinking about the anthology, a song I wrote for my sisters many years ago came to mind. I am considering including it at the end of the anthology and wonder how it comes across without the music. I’ll type in the lyrics below. I’d appreciate it if you’d share your impressions with me.

Song For My Sisters
By Laura McHale Holland

Three little beds made in a row, sun streaming in through our open window
Days of our youth began with me racin’ with you to the kitchen
Where we’d argue over who would get the Wheaties, who would eat the Rice Chex,
who would get the Corn Flakes

Did I tell you then how much I love you, sisters?
You’ve been always in my heart

Three ragged coats hung in the hall, three pairs of boots stood
right underneath them
I walked to school right beside you, children were cruel, called you names, now
All our clothes were second hand, I didn’t understand why it should
make a difference to the others

Did I tell you then how much I love you, sisters?
You’ve been always in my heart

Three teenagers, babysitters, waitresses and ice cream dippers
We bought new clothes, lipstick that glowed, cologne in scents for our earlobes
Rubbing elbows in the hall, each waiting for a call from someone who we hoped
would see our beauty

Did I tell you then how much I love you, sisters?
You’ve been always in my heart

One scholarship, one wedding ring, one Greyhound east, three new
and different lives
Life on my own, sometimes alone, I’d want a home with my sisters
Graduation came so fast, our childhood was past, we’d grown up and we had to
say goodbye now

Did I tell you then how much I love you, sisters?
You’ve been always in my heart

Three woman now stand tall and proud, voicing aloud plans for a saner world
Times have been worse, I’ve bled and hurt, cried in despair, Who will care?
And you’ve come flyin’ to my side, wherever I did hide, and you knew I would do
the same for you

So I’m sayin’ now how much I love you, sisters
You’ll be always in my heart
Yes, I’m sayin’ now how much I love you, sisters
You’ll be always in my heart

It came on the breeze, sidled through Gracie’s nose and lodged in her throat. The vibration was ever so slight, just a hint of sensation. She forgot all about it as she spent the day splashing and sunbathing at the community pool with her girlfriends. But when she checked email one last time before bed, her laptop monitor emitted a strong sepia light. Her heart thump thumped. The light dissipated. Her pulse settled down. She went to sleep.

Then, in the night, her world split open to a thundrous sound directly above. She looked up to a wide crack splitting her bedroom ceiling, the attic and roof. From a sepia orb suspended above the house desended thousands of faerie-like beings, each about an inch tall and carrying a harp or flute. They swarmed her, jigged all over her and played melodies reminiscent of ancient folk songs, but more strident, discordant.

At that, her visitors retreated; the crack in Gracie’s universe closed.

“Thank you.” Her mom strode away, satisfied.

Gracie rolled on her side, thinking maybe she’d been dreaming. Then she saw a tiny harp on her pillow. She dropped the harp into a velvet pouch she kept on her headboard. It landed on a ring of fake garnet and gold she’d gotten from a vending machine while shopping with her mom. In her sleep, she dreamed of flying among the stars.

In the morning, she peeked inside the pouch. The ring was gone, but the harp remained. “Gracie, time for breakfast,” her mom called. The voice sounded weak, as though far, far away. Gracie tucked the pouch into her T-shirt pocket. It vibrated every so slightly as she padded toward the kitchen.

Boys and girls fill the room with laughter, chatter and shrieks as they race to tables topped with watercolors, chalk and paper. The children, seven to nine years old, sift through the supplies, grabbing some, pushing others away. Their summer camp art teacher suggests they draw a scene from a favorite story. It could be one from a book or one they heard, true or untrue—just a favorite story.

Picture is from dragoart.com.

Chloe giggles with new friends as she begins painting a cloudless blue sky, flowing water, purple and blue rocks, lush green leaves. At the next table, a silent boy concentrates, chalk in hand. The teacher walks around the room, pausing often to offer encouragement as the children work.

As they finish, the children print their names on their pictures and then dash outside to play. Chloe’s picture is a waterfall cascading from a cliff. “This is lovely. What tale is this from?” the teacher asks. “The land behind the waterfall,” Chloe replies. “I don’t know that one. Where did you hear it?” Chloe looks down at her sneakers. “I don’t remember.” Outside, a gaggle of girls calls to Chloe, telling her to hurry up. She skips away.

The teacher steps to the next table as the boy finishes printing D-R-E-W at the bottom of his picture. She picks up the landscape. “This is beautiful; it’s just like Chloe’s.” Chloe is almost at the classroom door. “Wait a minute, Chloe. I want you to see this,” the teacher calls. Chloe walks back toward the table. “What story is this from?” the teacher asks. “The land behind the waterfall,” Drew says. Chloe moves closer to Drew. She smiles. He smiles back.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

Reversible Skirt, by Laura McHale Holland, is a heart-breaking memoir about one young mother’s suicide as seen through the eyes of her youngest child, Laura. A toddler at the time of the tragedy, Laura is initially bewildered by the changes swirling around her family, including the appearance of a new stepmother, who is simply passed off as the same person to the children.

The author has done a masterful job of capturing the thought process of a young child as she struggles to make sense of the changes in her world. The tragic events of the girls’ lives aren’t over, unfortunately. The abuse they experience as they grow and confront of the truth of their mother’s death and their father’s choices can be painful to read. Yet it’s worth persevering, because the book ends with Laura and her sisters finding strength and peace in adulthood.

Reversible Skirt describes a time in our not-too-distant past where mental illness and suicide were swept under the rug. While we have made some gains as a society, the situation will feel familiar to those of us who have lived through mental illness in our own families. What was most intriguing about the book was how the author and her sisters forgave their abusive stepmother after everything she did to them as children. Their ability to survive and recover from their challenging childhoods is uplifting. The capacity they show for forgiveness is truly inspiration.

Here’s another moment in the ongoing series of connected episodes that might (with revision) become a short story at some point.

The One He Always Wants to Hear
By Laura McHale Holland

We sit together, the abandoned boy and I, on a bench at the aquarium. He’s never before seen otters cavorting or orange jelly fish drifting through the deep, or sea anemones opening, closing, opening, closing in a rhythm ancient as the earth.

He leans against me and looks up with sad brown eyes. He doesn’t know his father is infamous for slaughter or that his stepdad insisted his pregnant mom leave him behind when the family moved to India. The stepdad said he couldn’t allow the boy’s bad genes to taint his coming child.

He leans in closer to me and asks, “Can we go to the land you came from?”

“We sure can,” I say. “Just close your eyes.”

And I begin the story, the one he always wants to hear, the one about the land behind the waterfall.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

I stumbled upon this review of my memoir, Reversible Skirt, on Goodreads. It’s by a member named Ana:

“Reversible Skirt is probably the most honest and gripping memoir I’ve read. McHale Holland is on my top 10 of writers writing today. She’s managed to tell a tragic story fraught with emotion without the poor poor pitiful me some writers might have fallen prey to.”

I’d been picturing this scene but couldn’t get myself to sit down and write it. I finally drafted it today while at Whole Foods after work.

On The SeatBy Laura McHale Holland

Carly and Chloe, a mother and daughter long separated by force, sit on opposite sides of a love seat; they are now separated by choice, a shoebox full of pictures between them.

Carly taps a bare foot on the plush carpet below; Chloe swings her little legs out and back, out and back.

One by one, Carly lifts pictures from the box and tells Chloe stories about them. One by one, she hands the pictures to Chloe, who stacks them on the seat next to the box. Carly talks of birthday cakes, Cabbage Patch dolls, sleepovers, Great America, her grandfather’s 80th birthday, her first crush.

When the box is empty, Chloe picks the pictures one after another from her pile and drops them back into the box. She says solitary words as the pictures drop: closet, dark, bruise, bam, bang, blood, splat, drive, waterfall, beach, puzzle, bye bye. When the box is full again, Carly replaces the lid, puts her hands in her lap, sighs.

“Again?” Chloe asks. “Of course,” Carly replies. She removes the lid. Chloe inches closer to her on the seat.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

I came from the land behind the waterfall until the drones split ears, hearts, flesh—and washed my tribe away. Except for me. Five years old. I was plucked from a thunder cliff and dropped in a Disney Channel family a continent away.

Now I’m a chameleon handyman, gardener, chauffeur. My boss blackened his whimsey wife’s eye after she locked their daughter in a closet all day. “The brat cries too much,” the wife had said.

I want to pluck that child from the back seat. Take her to the waterfall. But it is now only a memory cascading to the sea. And I need this job. I cannot protect her from her parents approaching the car, let alone the bombs still falling from the sky.

###

All of the episodes in this series in the order in which they were posted follow:

I’m going to be on a panel at the Women’s PowerStrategy Conference Saturday and even though the panel topic is “If it’s not one thing, it’s your mother” (on which I’m sure I’ll have plenty to say, no doubt), I’m preparing a one-page handout about sisterhood (on which I have even more to say). I’m pasting my draft in here and would very much apreciate your feedback.

Some Thoughts on SisterhoodBy Laura McHale Holland
Author of Reversible Skirt, a Memoir

My two sisters are my dearest friends. Over the years, they have cheered me and comforted me through all my triumphs and sorrows. And vice versa. But we weren’t always buddies. Our early years brought us significant heartbreak and abuse that, rather than pull us together, drove us apart. For many long days, nights and years, an ugly current of bitterness ran through our relationships; fights, ridicule and jealousy ruled our world.

Then things changed. Gradually at first, and then more rapidly, we transformed from sniping detractors into enthusiastic fans. And we have been close for so long now, the times of strife among us truly are distant memories. However, countless times people have come up to me, remarked upon the bond my sisters and I share and then looked wistfully as they’ve said something like, “I haven’t spoken to my sister in years. What’s your secret?”

So I’m going to write down ten things my sisters and I, through trial and error, have learned about how to care for each other. I hope these thoughts on sisterhood help others seeking to form a closer bond with their beloved sisters—by blood or otherwise.

Together you and your sisters must:

1. Decide you want to have loving, supportive relationships with each other and commit to taking action to make that happen. It is best for all parties involved to make this decision and commitment. Meaningful progress will be much slower otherwise.

2. Remember that the past is over; there is nothing you can do to change it. So forgive yourself for any harm you may have caused your sisters and forgive your sisters for any harm they may have caused you.

3. Realize that you and your sisters will inadvertently hurt each other’s feelings after you’ve made a commitment to do the opposite. Forgive yourself and your sisters for these blunders as they occur and move on.

4. Focus more on listening than on being heard, and learn to see things from your sisters’ points of view.

5. Do things together that you all enjoy, things that make you all laugh, things that will bring smiles to your faces long afterward.

6. Tell your sisters often how much you love them. Always put your loving connection with one another above all else in the relationships.

7. Notice your sisters’ good qualities and the admirable things they’ve done. Tell them about these things repeatedly—and celebrate them.

8. If you need to complain about one of your sisters, do it with someone outside of the situation. Look for a sympathetic ear, but don’t try to convince the person you are good and your sister is bad.

When I was a youngster, I used to tear down our block, jump over our neighbor’s small evergreen tree (which grew from about two feet to four feet tall in the years that I did this), run diagonally across our front lawn and then leap over four stairs to our front porch. I did this routinely and with much delight.

One day my foot slipped at the bottom of the stairs, and my knee slammed into the edge of one of the stairs. Actually, it was the top of my tibia that met the stair. The whole knee area was a swollen mess for a while, but eventually it shrank to its normal size, except for a bump on the tibia.

Since then, the bump has caused me no problems unless I try walking on my knees or do some kind of dance activity that uses the knee joint in ways it’s really not supposed to be used. And I went for 49 years without further injury to that spot.

Unfortunately, last month I injured the knee in the very same place. The leg can bear weight, so my doctor deduced no bone is broken. The skin is healing, the swelling is going down, but the joint is not working well yet. The bump on my tibia is a bit larger; the soft tissue around it is stressed. To avoid pain, I have to poke along like my arthritic grandmother used to do.

This has slowed me down more than I would have ever thought. Last week I had oral surgery, too, which has slowed me down as well. Recovery from that is going very well, though. No problems there (except eating is difficult for the time being).

So, my friends, I’m flagging for a bit. I’m of necessity focused on healing. I’m down but not out. I’ll be back to posting soon.

I don’t have a story ready this week yet (I’m still thinking over what direction I want to go in this year), but I do have a guest post up at Lynn Henriksen’s TellTale Souls blog. It has to do with mothers, and, well, mothers are what brought us all into this world, and some of us are mothers ourselves, so it’s hard to be neutral on the topic, isn’t it?

I hope my thoughts on my mother and stepmother stimulate you to share your own perspectives.